


in the low lamp light I was free

by astrangebird



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02, Rating May Change, Religious Guilt, Slow Burn, Touch-Averse, Touch-Starved, cobb vanth tries his best, it's kinda meandering but that's just how I roll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangebird/pseuds/astrangebird
Summary: Din returns to Mos Pelgo to lay low for a little while. Cobb quickly realizes that a different man has returned to his dusty town.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 21
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

The glint of silver in the distance catches his eye, hard to miss in the vast expanse of low rolling dunes. It’s coming in quick, a speeder then. Cobb squints against the suns and reaches for his binocs. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” He mutters to himself, a rueful smile pulling at his lips as the figure in the distance comes into focus. 

Cobb walks to the end of the road at the edge of town, a happy little bubble of anticipation in his chest at the return of the Mandalorian. Was it anticipation? Had he been waiting? He waves as the Mandalorian approaches, the hum of the speeder finally hitting his ears.

"Hey! What brings you back to town, stranger?" Cobb calls, long held excitement rolling off him.

The Mandalorian stops along-side him, cutting the engine and sliding off the speeder. He doesn't say anything for a moment and Cobb wonders if he hadn't heard him over the wind and the sputter of thrusters.

"I-" His voice is rough, even for the modulator. "I don't know." 

Cobb starts at that. This is a very different Mandalorian. Where's the steely confidence? The prickly attitude? He looks him over, really looks. His posture is a bit hunched and there's grit at the edges of his armor, carbon scoring on the side of his helmet. He's got just one pack strapped to his speeder, maybe large enough to carry a week's rations and a bedroll. And no little green kid? 

He tries to keep his smile bright, hoping that it'll take the edge off the tension he feels creeping up his neck. 

"You stayin' long? Looks like you packed kinda light." 

"Took the speeder off some thug in Mos Eisley. They didn't know that blaster fire bounces back off of beskar at the right angle." 

That's half an answer. Seems like a bit of a sloppy approach, a bit unplanned, even for him. Cobb looks at the pack on the speeder again, tries to not look like he's staring when he can't spot those floppy ears sticking out of the Mandalorian's bag. 

"Where's uh- where's the kid?" 

He sways a little like he's almost asleep on his feet. Cobb reaches out to steady him with a hand to his shoulder and he's surprised when he isn't brushed away. 

"I found his people." Cobb can hear his breath shutter, half heard by the modulator. 

That's a good thing, he knows that. But the wobbly knees and quiet voice of the Mandalorian tells him otherwise. 

"Sounds like you could use a drink, pardner." Cobb pats at his pauldron but doesn't move away. 

Cobb can almost see his winning smile reflected back at him, the beskar still just as silver as he remembers but lacking the near chrome finish of a few months ago. The Mandalorian looks at his speeder then back at Cobb. He nods, just one sharp motion, Cobb takes that as a yes. 

"Then let's grab a drink, it’s on me." Cobb scoots his hand to the center of the Mandalorian's back and gently guides him forward. 

There's substance there, the armor solid same as the man, but Cobb feels like he's moving a ghost. They walk in silence, an expected silence but not a comfortable one. A few of the townsfolk wave and a few others excitedly whisper to one another, Cobb expects the whole town will know of the Mandalorian's return within the hour. The Mandalorian pays them no mind, looking straight ahead and following Cobb’s guiding hand. Cobb sits him at the empty bar, greeting the bartender as he walks behind the counter. 

"Why don't you take a break, friend." Cobb suggests, carefully taking the cup and rag from his hands. 

He hands them over, confused but willing enough, "Sure…" He says, giving a nod of acknowledgment towards the Mandalorian as he heads toward the back. 

"What's your poison, Mando? Name it and we probably have some." Cobb calls from under the counter, digging for a straw and a second cup. 

The Mandalorian doesn't answer, but then again Cobb didn't expect him to, so he grabs a bottle of whiskey and sets about pouring their drinks. He sits silently, the visor stares impassively at the counter as Cobb pours. He's reminded of a droid. Cobb drops the straw into a cup and pushes it towards him, the helmet tips forward to track his hand. He lifts his own and holds it between them, waiting. Slowly, the Mandalorian takes his cup and lifts it to meet Cobbs', not quite touching cup to cup. He tilts his head, an inquisition. Cobb supposes he should offer a toast. 

"To livin', to better days, and promises kept." He says, hoping that his sentiments are clear but soft enough to not scrape against what are obviously open wounds, and taps their cups together. 

"Promises kept." He echos, empty. 

Cobb throws back half his drink and sets it down, averting his eyes as the Mandalorian tips his helmet up just far enough to slip the straw under. Honestly Cobb is surprised that he took him up on the offer, he remembers seeing him turn to face fully away to drink from his canteen even in dim fire light. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the brown liquor disappear at an alarming rate before the wet burbling sound of sucking at an empty cup pulls his eyes back over. 

He's not one to judge, but maybe he needs to pour him smaller cups. 

The Mandalorian pushes his cup away and sets his helmet back down over his jaw, the alcohol shudder finally catching him. The silence holds and Cobb takes another more measured sip as he watches beskar plates shift and clink with the slumping of his shoulders. 

"Thank you." The Mandalorian says. He can't see his eyes through the tinted visor, but he's sure they aren't looking at him. 

"Don't mention it." 

He wants to ask, wants to know what happened, what brought him here, why he didn't just land his ship outside town, if he missed him while he was gone. The quiet is killing him. But it's so brittle, the quiet, as if he'd never be able to get it back if he breaks it. 

The Mandalorian sighs, a deep, weary sound, and looks into his empty cup, "What do you want to know?" 

"Am I that obvious?" Cobb laughs. 

"You're tapping your foot." 

Cobb looks down at his feet and pushes the offending boot to the floor. "Didn't even notice." 

"Another drink and I'll tell you." He says, scooting the cup back across the counter. 

"Sure thing, Mando." 

"Din." 

Cobb pulls the cork from the bottle, "Hmm?" 

"My name is Din Djarin." 

Cobb can't help but smile. "Din," He says, testing the feel of it on his tongue, and pours two more drinks, a little shorter this time. 

"Nice to meet you, Din Djarin." He says, scooting the cup back. 

Din shifts a bit at the sound of his name. "Likewise." He mutters, and slips the straw under his helmet. 

This quiet feels better, maybe it's the whiskey calming his nerves. Din doesn't suck this one down in one gulp, but doesn't start talking until he's done. When he does start there’s a detached sort of professionalism to his words, recounting tales of heroism, suspense, crisis of faith, all with as much enthusiasm as an accountant reading off the raw numbers of your business. Cobb pours himself another drink and listens with rapt attention. It isn’t until the end, on the deck of an empire cruiser, that Din’s voice changes. He gets a little quieter, almost whispers. Cobb can see his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths. He wants to reach out to him, take his hand as if he were one of his people telling him of a death in the family. But that type of kindness might not be as well received. Can’t hold hands with a ghost.

“He asked my permission. Said Grogu was looking for my permission.” He takes a shuddering breath and Cobb says nothing, doesn’t dare bring it up or ask if he’s alright. He isn’t. They both know that.

“I wanted to say no.” 

Din leaves that in the air for a moment, and Cobb feels the weight of it, sees it on Din’s shoulders. A Mandalorian’s word is as good as gold, or so he’s been told. Cobb would bet that some unseen force in the universe would become unbalanced if a Mandalorian broke their word.

“I bet you did.” Cobb prompts, knows he needs to finish the story, needs someone else to hear his grief.

“That was the first time the kid saw my face. Probably the last time.” 

“You took your helmet off again?” 

Din looks at him, and Cobb can feel his eyes on him now.

“I had to. He had to see me, had to know that he would be alright with that Jedi. I don’t know if he will be, but I had to. For him.” 

“You did the right thing, sending him with the Jedi.”

“Did I?” Din asks, there’s a desperation in his voice, like he’s been waiting to hear someone say that.

“I think so. You said that kid needed to be with a Jedi, and that one seemed as good as any. The kid liked me so I’d say he was a pretty good judge of character.” Cobb puts on a smile that he hopes is charming. He hears a huff, could almost call it a laugh. “He also trusted you, trusted your judgement, I think you should too. I think you made the right call.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Din holds his gaze. His shoulders slump and his breath crackles behind the modulator.

“I hope so.” He says.

“I know so.” Cobb replies, finishing his drink. “I don’t know much, but I know you wouldn’t have made a call that would hurt that kid.”

Din looks away, down at his hands still wrapped around his cup, “I hope so.” He repeats.

Cobb feels like today is a four drink kind of day. He reaches forward and tucks his fingers between Din’s hand and his cup, coaxing it out between his palms to fill it once more. He pretends not to notice the way that Din balls his fist, rubbing his gloved fingers into his palm.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the company, and getting day-drunk is my favorite kind of company I assure you, but why are you here?” Cobb asks, trying to slide Din’s cup carefully across the counter now that his fingers feel a bit leaden, heavy with three whiskeys on an empty stomach. “The kid is safe, you’re a free man now. Why come back to this dust bucket?”

Din flexes his hands on the bar and stares into his cup.

“I don’t know. It’s out of the way. People don’t really know me here, or the-” He pauses, rubs his thumb over the edge of his cup, “Or Grogu. Thought maybe I could lay low for a while.”

There’s a certain kind of sadness that people wear when their isolation is all their own, they wear it all over. Din could have gone anywhere in the galaxy that would have been infinitely more comfortable than Mos Pelgo, but that was the problem wasn’t it? He knew Din’s type. They need to do in order to not think, to know that whatever code they hold themselves to was worth the hurt. It takes work to live out here. And people don’t often come just to ask how your kid is doing. 

“I can put you up.” Cobb tucks back the last of his drink, holding the counter for balance as the liquor starts catching up with him. “Ain’t got any hotels out here, but I’ve got a real nice couch I wouldn’t mind getting reacquainted with.”

“That’s very kind, but I’d be happy with just a roof.” Din replies, a very tired and half hearted rejection.

“I _insist_.” Cobb swaggers his way around the bar, coming to stand next to the Mandalorian. His limbs feel loose at the joints as he swings an arm around Din’s broad shoulders. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t treat my guest right?” 

Din tenses but doesn’t pull away and Cobb’s just gonna chalk that up as a win and thank the whiskey.

“Thank you, Marshal.” Din says quietly.

“It’s Cobb, remember?” He teases, squeezing his bicep and giving him a playful shake, leaning on him with a bit more weight.

Din drums his fingers on the bar.

“Thank you, Cobb. You’re too kind.”

Cobb smiles wide like a fool. It’s nice to have someone call him something other than Marshal or more commonly ‘hey asshole’.

“I am, aren’t I?” Cobb says, giving Din another shake before letting go and heading toward the door. “Let’s get you settled in then, shall we?”

He’s only taken about two steps before his balance wavers and the floor is suddenly quickly approaching, when a strong hand catches him by the elbow. Cobb’s head spins and he stumbles back toward the steadying hand, a second stopping him just above the small of his back.

“Didn’t take you for a lightweight, Marshal.”

Cobb scrunches his eyes closed and tries to will the dizziness away. When he manages to focus his eyes they land squarely on the T-visor of the Mandalorian. Between the smug tone and the renewed confidence in his stance Cobb can’t help but think that all-business, professional sad bounty hunter Din Djarin was actually trying to be playful in return. Or maybe it was the whiskey and the far too many lonely nights talking.

“Well I don’t normally start drinkin’ so early after skippin’ lunch, Mando.” Cobb smiles, swaying into Din, playing the line between obvious flirting and plausible deniability that he’s just too drunk to stand up straight.

Din’s hand flexes around his arm and lets go, drawing back like the worn fabric of his shirt burnt him. Even without eyes to read the shift is immediate, closing off and stepping back, clearly disengaging. He clears his throat.

“Apologies.” Din says, the serious tone returned.

Now Cobb remembers why you shouldn’t flirt when you’re drunk; you can’t be sure it’s a good idea anymore.

“No need to apologize, my friend. Wasn’t I the one to offer drinks? On me, right?” Cobb lays it on thick, like trying to back out of a fight that he definitely started but knows he would lose. Din nods, another sharp chop. “Then ain’t no one in trouble except my dumb ass later when I wake up with a headache. Now, if you don’t mind possibly having to catch me a few more times I’ll show you to your lodgings.” Cobb gestures in a grandiose arc toward the door, dipping for a wobbly bow.

Din regards him in silence for a moment, then turns back to the bar. He pulls the straw from his cup and tilts his helmet to his nose, downing the rest.

“Alright. Lead the way.” He says, setting the cup on the counter and pressing his helmet back down.

“Yeah. This way.” Cobb mutters, momentarily stunned. He feels like he’s walked in on someone with their pants down, or rather someone answered the door pantsless. 

Is it wrong of him to try and commit the brief glimpse of stubble to memory? Should he try to put it from his mind?

He doesn’t mention it. It’s not his place to ask questions about it, not yet at least. The man only just rolled into town and shared his grief over the loss of his child; he can ask about changes to his religious convictions later.

Cobb meanders toward his home, swaying off to the side from time to time to gently bump into the waiting hands of the Mandalorian, corralling him in as straight a line as he can manage. By the time they’ve reached the door Din has his arm wrapped around the Marshal’s shoulders to keep his bumbling legs from tipping him over. 

“Home sweet home.” Cobb says, fumbling with the keypad.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Din replies as the door slides open with scrape, “I don’t want to be in your way.”

“Nonsense, it’s only me in here. Could use the company, anyway.” Cobb hushes, patting his hand haphazardly against Din’s chestplate.

The door slides closed and the sound of the near constant wind of the dunes falls away as the few dim overhead lights flicker to life. His house is rather small, but it’s his. What he could call a living room had a beat to shit couch and one chair that was still padded and nice and another that wasn’t sat around a low table. There’s a shelf set into the wall with moth eaten books and holodiscs and the scant few trinkets he’s picked up here and there. There’s a table with an uneven leg and four mismatched chairs in the kitchen. Every dish he owns is currently in the sink, but that isn’t too bad considering he has no more than ten dishes total. Against the far wall are the entrances to Cobb’s bedroom and the fresher, and a hallway leading to the back door and a closet.

Cobb slips out from under Din’s arm, doesn’t think about how nice the weight of it had felt across his shoulders, and grabs a discarded pair of pants off the couch on his zig-zag path across the short distance to his bedroom door.

“Here’s the bedroom, consider it yours for now and no, I won’t be takin’ no for an answer.” He says, opening the door with far more flourish than it deserved. 

Din hasn’t moved past the door mat. The helmet swivels in a slow smooth arch from one side of the room to the other even as his balance starts to waver again. He gets it, old habits die hard; Cobb still keeps a hand over his blaster when rounding corners in town. He takes the moment of Din’s hesitation to toss the worn pants into the closet and grab his one extra blanket. 

“Don’t have anything fancy in the way of food today, but help yourself to whatever I have in the cooler or any of the cupboards.” Cobb says, setting the blanket on the couch and heading to the kitchen, hoping water and food will help with his wobbly whiskey knees.

He’s scrubbing whatever has settled in the bottom of one of his cups when Din’s gloved hand settles on his forearm. 

“Thank you.” He says, and it sounds so solemn. But his voice is at least firm again, only seeming to waiver when he talks about the kid.

“It’s really no problem,” Cobb replies, a little startled by the proximity. Din isn’t especially tall but he always manages to loom with his broad stance and armored face. “Just helpin’ out a friend. Pretty sure you’ve already thanked me a dozen times.”

“Probably.” 

His hand lingers on his arm a moment longer before he pulls back, shoulders tense like he’s expecting someone to swing at him.

“Just want you to know that I mean it.”

“‘Course.” Cobb feels like he’s been looking at him too long, like if he looked long enough he’d be able to read whatever expression was hiding behind that visor. “I know you mean it.”

Din nods and looks away and some of the tension leaves his stance.

Cobb fills his cup and downs it in one go then fills it again. Din’s still hovering by the stove, staring out into the living room. 

“Fresher is that other door if you wanna shake the sand out of your suit.” Cobb offers, gesturing to the door with his cup as he opens a cupboard to find anything to eat that doesn’t require him to cook.

It’s almost like watching the clockwork whirling of a protocol droid as lights seem to flicker on inside that tin can. Wordlessly, Din strides over to the fresher, more mechanical than man though his steps stutter over the threshold. Cobb wonders if he should dig some motor oil in from the garage for him.

Cobb nods off as he waits, the beat to shit couch still comfortable in that way that only an old couch can be, so he wakes with a start when the fresher door opens again. Din walks out with most of his beskar bundled in his arms and a rag in hand. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Din mutters. “I can work on these in the bedroom if you were sleeping.”

“No, no, come on over,” Cobb rubs at his eyes and sits up, “Too early for bed anyway.” 

Din stands stock-still for a moment longer. “Alright.” He replies.

He sets his armor on the floor and pulls a small tube of something from his pocket and sets it on the table, polish it looks like. He picks up one of his thigh guards and sits down, rag in hand. It’s odd to see the Mandalorian’s bare hands, tan flesh and bone and tendon and not worn leather. He works methodically, like this is a meditation, pressing the rag into the corners of every bend in the metal before wiping down the flat planes. It feels rude to speak, like burping at a funeral. But Cobb’s a talker, the silence keeps making him anxious, like he has to keep talking, keep being charming, to have been worth Din’s trip from who knows where in the infinity of space.

“You keep surprisin’ me.” Cobb says quietly.

Din’s hands hesitate for a moment before picking up their rhythm once more, “Why’s that?” He asks, he doesn’t look away from his work.

“Never thought I’d see you without all that on.” He gestures towards the pile on the floor.

“I do bathe.”

“I assumed you did.”

“And the beskar is… it’s like my skin. Or maybe… my home.” Din lifts the guard toward the light. “You have to tidy up every once in a while.” 

Cobb hums, “I guess I meant I’m surprised that you’re out _here_ without it on. Not that I thought you to be shy or anything, but this struck me as a task you typically do in private.”

Din sighs and picks up a pauldron. “It’s complicated.”

“I figured.”

This time the silence was loud as Din rubs his thumbs over the raised symbol on the face of his pauldron, some kind of creature skull.

“You remember being a kid, and everything the adults around you said was true, because it was all you knew?” Din asks, somewhere between a genuine question and a rhetorical one. Cobb nods.

“Over time you learn that they didn’t always know everything. Sometimes you find out that they didn’t tell you the whole truth.” Din picks up his rag and presses it into the empty eye socket of the creature. “Sometimes you have to make your own truth.”

Cobb isn’t sure he can relate, Tatooine isn’t a place of mystery and codes, hell there’s hardly ever any religion here that didn’t come from somewhere else. 

“Is this about those other Mandalorians you met? That lady with the laser sword?” Cobb asks.

Din nods, “She told me I was raised in a cult, that my tribe had taken a very… literal interpretation of certain tenets. That we were zealots.” Din curls in around the pauldron, bringing the insignia close to his visor. “My tribe was scattered and destroyed before I met you, Marshal. I willingly gave up the only other member of my clan. All I have left is a creed that I never truly understood.” 

Din’s fingers clutch white-knuckle tight around the pauldron and he stands abruptly, knocking his chair over as he reels back and throws the pauldron into the kitchen, clattering against the floor and sliding under the table.

“Whoa! Easy there, pardner!” Cobb scrambles to his feet, hands up and open on instinct.

The helmet whips around to look at him and Cobb can’t deny that he can feel his eyes on him, piercing even through the tinted visor like he’s facing down a rabid massiff. Din’s breathing hard, it crackles behind the modulator. He had thought that Din looked smaller without his metal shell, but he nearly fills the room with his anger.

Religious convictions might baffle him, but anger he understands.

Cobb shuffles a step closer, hands still raised as he extends one slowly towards Din. The ragged breathing turns wet, a garbled sob trapped behind the visor, and Din folds in on himself before slumping to the floor, arms wrapped around his middle like his guts could come tumbling out.

“Oh, honey.” Cobb calls, crouching to take hold of Din’s shoulders.

Din doesn’t pull away like Cobb had expected, instead pushing into his hands until the smooth dome of his helmet falls onto Cobb’s chest.

“Easy does it,” Cobb coos, cupping the back of Din’s neck with one hand and rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other, “I’ve got ya. You’re alright. Deep breaths.”

Din’s breath comes in short hiccuping sobs and he shakes like a brittle leaf, clutching at his own stomach and pressing his helmet into Cobb’s chest hard enough he thinks he may bruise. They could have sat that way for moments of hours, Cobb isn’t sure, doesn’t care.

“I don’t know much about things like this,” Cobb starts, talking on compulsion to combat the squirming feeling in his gut at the sudden intimacy of the moment, “But I know what it’s like having to start over, to learn to be a person again. It’s hard, it takes time, but it’s worth it.”

Din’s breathing slowly evens out, and Cobb holds onto him, unsure what more he can say to comfort him but certain that letting him go would have him crumbling entirely. This is the build up of too many earthquakes shaking the foundation for the thing to keep standing. Maybe Din would have been fine with just sending his kid away, or just finding out about other Mandalorians, or just his tribe being taken from him. But every man only has so many bricks to lose before his home comes tumbling down on him.

“I’m sorry.” Din whispers, a static hiss behind the beskar. “I’m sorry.”

It breaks his heart to hear him apologizing for the thing that makes him the most human, for feeling grief and sorrow and rage and not being able to keep it trapped inside. Had he been told his emotions were a burden? That he had to be totally self sufficient? When was the last time he had let his pain out in any other way than violence?

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.” Cobb smooths his thumb just under the edge of his helmet, brushing at sweat damp hair at the nape of his neck. 

Din shivers, then quick as a whip his right arm uncoils from his stomach to grasp at the blaster on his thigh. Cobb rips both hands off of him but moves no further. The silence is screaming, but talking won’t fix this one. 

They sit like that for a moment more, Cobb’s hands hovering at his sides with the Mandalorian’s helmet pressed to his chest and his hand on his blaster. He's breathing heavy again, but Cobb’s smart enough not to do something stupid twice.

Din takes his hand off his thigh, “Sorry.” He sounds ashamed.

A nervous bark of laughter bursts from Cobb, “No, no! I’m sorry. I uh- I shouldn’t have done that?”

Din stands, leaving Cobb on the floor. He takes his blaster from its holster and sets it on the table as he walks into the kitchen. Cobb picks up the overturned chair and watches as Din runs his hands over his helmet like one would run their fingers through their own hair. He sighs and reaches under the table to grab his pauldron and wipes the sand off of it with a sort of reverence that seems strange considering it had just been chucked across the room. 

“I hope pointing a blaster at you isn’t enough to kick me out.” Din says flatly, staring into the face of the creature skull.

Cobb feels the tension break and snorts out a laugh, “Sweetheart, if a blaster turned me off I’d never have any company!”

Din laughs, sort of, in that tired huffing way of his, and Cobb breathes a sigh of relief knowing he probably won’t be shot today. He wills his aging knees to get him off the floor and grabs Din’s blaster and rag, buffing away the carbon blacking built up at the end of the barrel. 

“Honestly, I feel better knowing you’re still sharp as a tack-” Cobb says, cut off when he looks up from the blaster to see Din resting his helmet against the paulron, an unfamiliar gesture but it seems unusually sweet and private for someone so stoic, “All uh- all things considered.” 

Din lowers the pauldron but doesn’t look away from it quite yet.

“I’ve had a blaster on me every day since I was… maybe thirteen?” Din replies, some of his more professional composure returning. He takes a breath and his shoulders slump, “It’s just another part of my body, I guess.”

The phrase “polishing his blaster” pops into Cobb’s head, and honestly he hadn’t asked for any stupid jokes from the damn peanut gallery. “It certainly shows.”

Din turns and walks carefully back into the living room, a mix of attempted telegraphing and embarrassment. “I promise I won’t point my blaster at you again… unless you earn it.”

“Ha! I ain’t that bad. Most of the time. Don’t ask the lady three houses down though.” Cobb adds with a wink, turning the blaster handle out to Din.

He hesitates for a moment but reaches out slowly for it. Cobb sees a ragged white scar that cuts from the top of his hand to the meat of his palm and for some reason that feels like something private too.

“Well now I want to know what she has to say.” Din says, holstering the blaster. And it’s almost flirty in that dry way Cobb has known so many a gunslinger to be.

“Far be it from me to try and stop ya, dragonslayer.” He says as he sits back down on the too old couch, setting his arms across the back of it.

Din makes that huffing sort of laugh again and sits back down with his pile of armor, “I’ll take it all with a grain of salt, how’s that?”

“More like the whole shaker.” Cobb scoffs. 

Din sets his pauldron down on the table, turning it so the insignia faces away. Cobb wants to ask why, ask what it means, but just looking at it too long had Din throwing it across the room and sobbing on the floor. Instead of doing what he wants which would be stupid he sits quietly and drinks his long forgotten second cup of water while Din polishes his other pauldron.

He’s heard Din talk more today than he had in the week he was in town facing the dragon, but these moments where he sits quietly seem to be his natural state. Maybe Cobb’s just not used to the silence, maybe he just likes listening to Din talk, but he wants to hear more. There’s so much that Din just glosses over when he tells his stories, his priorities set on the sequences of events and less on the context that Cobb craves.

“You won’t go throwin’ things again if I ask for some clarification, will you?”

There’s an embarrassed hunch to his shoulders, “No.”

“So, those other Mandalorians, they took their helmets off, no problem. And they told you that not taking it off is weird? Is that what this is?” He gestures to his bare hands and the pile of beskar before circling back to himself, “You havin’ some thoughts about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, picks up his chestplate, and takes a breath.

“We can call this a baby step.”

“A baby step?”

“They told me about Mandalore, about how they and… most others, interpret a key tenet of our creed. I didn’t know anything else. I wasn’t raised on Mandalore. My tribe was all I knew of our culture and I took their word as law.” Din digs the rag into the grooves of the hexagonal divot of the plate. “My tribe told me that if you ever remove your helmet in front of another living being you could never put it back on, you wouldn’t be a Mandalorian anymore. Most applied that to the rest of their armor too.” He wipes the rag over the flat plane of the plate. “I did,” He pauses and rubs his thumbs over the smooth metal, “Until I couldn’t.”

“So… are you breaking your own rules right now or are your rules changing?” Cobb asks. “Are you still a Mandalorian?”

Din is quiet as he thinks and looks into the somewhat distorted mirror of his chestplate.

“If you had asked me that a year ago I would have told you no. But things change, and I have to adapt. I believe I am still a Mandalorian. How could I be anything else?”

“So baby steps. Carvin’ your own path?”

Din turns to him and nods, “This is the Way.” 

There’s an optimism in his voice that has Cobb smiling at that impassive visor, “Well, I appreciate your trust, friend.”

Din ducks his head, a nervous sort of nod, “Thank you for not asking more from me.”

Confused, Cobb replies, “What more would I ask of you? You came here on a stolen speeder with nothin’ but your blaster and a spear. We can discuss who does the dishes, I guess?”

He shuffles his feet a little and looks back at his work, “In the past, even before I had learned of people like Bo-Katan, others would ask me about the helmet. Promise me they wouldn’t tell anyone if I took it off. They didn’t consider that I wore it because I wanted to and not because I was forced to. Thank you for not asking me to take it off.”

“Honestly, the thought had never crossed my mind. Even back at the bar when you were tellin’ me about the times you did take it off I assumed that you had a reason for keeping it on and it ain’t any business of mine to tell you want to do with that bucket.” Cobb points to his helmet and tries to make his smile extra charming, hoping to keep Din at ease. “You take all the baby steps you need, baby.”

He doesn’t tell him that he had in fact wondered what his face had looked like, what color his eyes were.

Din laughs, an honest to gods laugh, “I appreciate that about you.” He scrapes at a ridge in his plate, there isn’t anything there and Cobb doesn’t mention that, “It’s why I came here. Well,” He drums his fingers in a way that Cobb could only interpret as nervousness. “You know, other than what I said before, about laying low.”

Cobb can’t help the way his smile turns playful again at the opportunity to ask one of his many questions, “Why Mando, did you miss me?”

Another laugh, this one a chuckle, and Cobb can hear the smile in his voice when he admits sheepishly, “You could say that.” 

Cobb only has a moment to be surprised before Din continues, his visor still set on his busy hands, “When I was here last, it felt like… maybe you would understand me, if I let you. Like maybe we were cut from the same cloth. You had been so ready to shoot at any Tusken in sight until I told you more about them, you listened and you willingly changed, gave up prejudices that you had held onto for what must have been your whole life. Maybe you didn’t understand things about them but you respected that that was just how things were for them. I wanted to be around someone like that. Maybe you wouldn’t understand me right away, but I thought you would respect how I am.” 

That was… not quite what Cobb was expecting. He wasn’t expecting such radical earnestness. He wasn’t expecting for Din to think so deeply about why he came to his podunk town in the dunes. He wasn’t expecting the reason to be him. Cobb likes to think of himself as an honorable man, if not a good one. But Din seems to see him as good, worth being around in the throws of his grief. The galaxy has obviously been rough to him if he sees Cobb as a good man.

“I- I don’t know what to say.” For the first time in his life that feels true to say. 

“You don’t have to say anything.” Din looks down at his bare hands and folds them together, rubbing at them like they were cold. “I didn’t speak to anyone for the three days it took to get here. I’m grateful that you would listen to me again.”

For a moment Cobb wonders if Din would have shared all this if he had somewhere else to go, if his little twinkle of civilization had been just a pitstop to some greener pasture rather than the pasture itself.

“Of course I would.” Cobb agrees, like it was obvious he would listen, though he hadn’t really thought about it before but it feels natural to say. He feels the urge to reach out again, warm Din’s bare hands between his own now that he seems more real, corporeal in a way he didn’t when he first climbed off that speeder. “I know I have people here who rely on me, who trust me, but it means a lot to hear that from you.”

“It means a lot for me to say it.” Din wrings his hands again, “I hope you know that.”

 _Fuck it._ Cobb thinks for one fleeting moment before reaching across the short distance of his dirty living room table and takes one of Din’s hands in both of his. Immediately, Din’s hand grips bruising tight around his while the other balls into a fist on his knee and Cobb is torn between worrying if his hands are clammy or if he’s about to get punched in the face.

“I know it.” Cobb squeezes Din’s hand back and stares down at it clenched between his long boney fingers. “But please, don’t think you need to indulge me. I like havin’ answers but that’s not more important than you havin’ time to figure shit out and have your privacy.”

There’s a near deafening silence, broken only by a few sharp breaths hissing through Din’s modulator.

“Alright.” Din replies quietly, relaxing his grip just a bit.

“Alright.” Cobb echos, looking up at last. Din’s visor still locked on their hands.

“Can we start that now?” 

“What?”

“The part about not indulging you. Can I stop holding your hands now?” Din asks, his balled fist flexing open and curling shut again.

“Oh!” Cobb quickly pulls back, “Sure! Sorry I-,” A flush of embarrassment washes down his neck and he sweeps a hand through his coarse hair. “Just how I comfort people around here.”

Din wrings his hands again, squeezes his thumb, his knuckles, his palm, all the parts that Cobb had touched. “It’s not personal. Or, well,” He folds his hands together. “I guess it is. It’s- it’s like the armor; baby steps.”

It’s like someone finally flicked the lights on. The dodgy story telling, the avoidant body language mixed with the friendly words, pulling back and moving forward like dipping your toe into the water to see if it’s cold. Din’s hard to read because he literally doesn’t know what signals he wants to give off.

“When was the last time someone touched your hands?” Cobb asks.

He looks down at them, turns his right hand over and runs his thumb along that thick scar, “Whenever I had to get stitches for this.” 

“Looks like a pretty old scar.”

“It is.”

Cobb hums.

“I’ll ask next time.” Din looks over at him, confusion written all over his blank visor, “Next time I think about laying a hand on you, patting your shoulder, askin’ my stupid questions, I’ll ask if it’s alright first.”

Din looks down at his hands again, twinning his fingers together, “If I don’t want to answer your questions I won’t.” He thumbs at his scar again, “Ask if it’s my skin. Don't touch my neck.”

“Deal,” Cobb extends his hand, an open invitation he hopes won’t be rejected.

Din eyes his hand and reaches out, clasping Cobb’s hand firmly in his, “Deal.”

Cobb tries to commit the memory of how Din’s wide palm fit into his but let’s go quickly. Din flexes his hand once before returning to his cleaning, like his hands need to keep moving to justify being outside their gloves. The quiet doesn’t feel so loud this time, there’s a weird sense of normalcy to it now. So Cobb pulls his scarf from around his neck and goes about cleaning the sand and grit from his own blaster. 

The twin sun's were already on their way down when they arrived, and now it's well and truly dark. Cobb is more aware of the soft hum of the lights now that he's spent longer in his living room today than he has in the past week. He wonders if Din hears it or if he's used to the hum of lights and electricity in the spaces he inhabits in silence. After a while Din inspects each piece, angling them to catch the glint of the light to ensure their shine meets his standards, then gathers his pile and makes for the bedroom. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to get some rest.” Din says, opening the bedroom door.

"Alright. Oh! Hey, you still got some carbon scoring on that dome of yours." Cobb calls after him. 

He pauses, but only for a moment, "Thank you. Good night, Marshal." 

“Good night.”

And with the final latch of the bedroom door Cobb is left alone in his dimly lit living room, truly quiet now. He supposes that since no one’s come running for him and nothing has exploded today that he might as well call it a night too. He turns off the lights, yanks his boots and armor off and as many layers of clothing as possible without being indecent if Din wakes up before him and lays down on his too old couch with his blanket that smells like the stale air inside his closet. He lays there in the dark staring up unseeing at the ceiling with his legs hanging off the couch and wonders how his day would have gone had the Mandalorian, Din, not come back to town. Would he have gone to the cantina later that night and drank himself stupid until someone else hauled him home and threw him in bed? Would something have gone awry in town if Din’s very presence hadn’t started up gossip? Would he have ever learned his name?

What will happen tomorrow? 

Cobb tries not to think of it, tucks his legs up onto the couch and tries to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who commented on ch 1 I read all of them I just have no idea how to respond I love you!!!

Din sleeps until nearly midday. 

He wakes in a near panic, pointing his blaster at the empty darkness as he clumsily kicks the thin unfamiliar blanket off, his other hand frantically pawing at the bed in a fruitless search for something that isn’t there. His own ragged breathing is the only sound in the sparse room. A deep breath and he remembers where he is and closes his eyes, flopping back down on the borrowed bed.

He’s in Mos Pelgo, in the home of Cobb Vanth, sleeping alone in his bed more bare than he’s been outside of a shower in a long time. 

Din presses his hands to his face and groans, he aches all over and he feels he could go back to sleep, but the flickering red numbers on the bedside clock shame him into getting up. It’s strange for his body to feel so light, to not have to crawl out of a cramped bunk. He feels naked despite his flight suit covering him from neck to ankle. His helmet stares at him impassively from atop the dresser and he feels a pang of guilt. That’s a feeling he’s going to have to get used to he supposes. There’s a lot of feelings he’s been having to get used to lately. 

The memory of last night, everything he shared, the old rules he used to cling to that he bent or broke come to the forefront of his mind. His hands find each other, his thumb pressing into the shallow dip of that old white scar, remembering the electric shock of calloused hands enveloping them. Another wave of guilt, and a wave of something new, an unnamed thing he hasn’t given time to yet. He thinks of the guilt instead, at least it’s something he knows the name of. 

Cobb had reminded him last night of a blaster mark on his helmet. There had been a moment, fleeting but very real, where he had considered sitting back down and cleaning it there. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, so he had pushed it away and went to sleep.

He picks up his helmet and the polishing rag to finish what he started. 

Years of being under the helmet and what he must admit was, at the very least, a gentle form of brainwashing makes his stomach turn at the thought of leaving this room without it. Maybe he won’t always feel that way, but it certainly isn’t going to happen after one night of sobbing on the floor. 

He sighs, looking at himself in the reflection of his now shining helmet. He had sobbed on the floor of Cobb Vanth’s living room. He hadn’t thought he had much dignity left to lose but apparently he was wrong. He isn’t sure he wants to think too hard about why he had let himself be that open with the Marshal, surely he could have held that in until he was alone and spared himself the embarrassment. But Cobb hadn’t made him feel embarrassed, had he? He had held him and shushed him and let him weep and didn’t ask him which part of the horrible story he had told had caused it. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? Because Cobb Vanth would listen. Cobb Vanth would understand. 

He puts the helmet on, the normal sense of relief comes over him but it doesn’t come alone. This time it’s accompanied by something else, he almost wants to call it frustration. That’s a feeling he hasn’t had about donning his helmet in years, decades even, maybe since he was a boy and unfamiliar with the weight of it and what it meant. 

He sits on the bed for a little longer.

He sighs as he wills himself back up, remembering the shame of nearly shooting Cobb for touching his neck, and the way his skin had crawled any time that Cobb’s hands had come into contact with his.

He adjusts the collar of the flight suit, pulling it up to meet the bottom edge of his helmet. He hesitates at the door, still less dressed than he would be even in the privacy of the Razor Crest.

_This is Tatooine, it’s too hot to wear all of that all the time. I’m not even planning on going anywhere._

It feels like an excuse, the Armorer would call it an excuse. But she isn’t here. Her Way isn’t his anymore. It can’t be. 

He debates putting his gloves on.

He steps out of the bedroom, the light far brighter from the multiple windows compared to the near blackness of the bedroom, reminding him that it was fairly late in the day to just be getting out of bed. But then again, what else was he going to do today? He had no ship, hardly any credits, no contracts. He was here to lay low, that could very well go hand in hand with just a touch of relaxation. Maybe he hadn’t earned it, but his body had clearly demanded it considering how long he slept.

A brief search shows that Cobb isn’t home, probably out doing his self-appointed job, and Din immediately feels less at ease. He chalks it up to feeling out of place and invasive in the other man’s home without him here rather than examining it any further. 

There’s a cloth covered plate set out rather obviously by the sink, the food has gone cold, though not as cold as it would have if the house didn’t warm so much with the rising suns. Din feels another pang of some weird emotion he doesn't have the space for inside him to think about, so he doesn’t, just appreciates the kindness and eats quickly. 

He cleans his plate and looks out the gritty window over the sink. Cobb’s house was about a block from the town square if he remembers his somewhat hazy walk from the cantina yesterday. Strange, he doesn’t remember there being a square last he was here. Frankly, he would have hardly considered Mos Pelgo to be worthy of the title of “town” last he was here. He had been on private estates that had more land and buildings to their claim. But just from the window he can see so much life, so much color, sturdy businesses he hadn’t seen before in place of roughshod prefabs that were one good storm away from flying off down the loose sand road.

An almost childlike sense of wonder overcomes him and he heads to the front door. He pauses at the sight of his own hand hovering over the keypad. It was one thing to be doing this, whatever this indulgence in rule breaking was, inside, in private. It’s another to take it outside.

He looks out the window again. There are brightly colored flags and shade giving tapestries hanging from awnings and rooftops flapping in the ever present Tatooine wind.

He’s never felt the wind on his skin here. Or the heat of the beating suns.

He steps outside, the change in heat immediate, the light somehow brighter still. Cobb’s house has a small shaded porch with two sun bleached and sand covered chairs bolted to the floor. A strong gust whips down the street, nearly knocking Din over if only because the feeling of sand brushing over his bare feet and hands has him reeling. He takes another step, out to the edge of the porch where the shade meets the sun. He reaches his hand out, palm up like he could catch a cup of that light, that heat, and keep it with him on days he feels more cowardly. 

The strange joy of feeling the too hot light of the suns on his skin is almost overwhelming and Din feels he could cry again, like he hasn’t emptied himself out already. He reaches his other hand out, greedily warming his already feverish skin as if he would never have this opportunity again. Who knows, he may not. He might wake up tomorrow under such a heavy blanket of regret that he never divest himself of his armor again. A reckless part of himself longs to strip off the flight suit and feel the sun on his bare shoulders, the sand blowing off the road on his calves, sweat from nothing other than the heat of the noon light. He wonders how much light the visor blocks from his eyes.

The sound of children laughing has him curling back in on himself, back into the shade. Just down the street a group of girls in green dresses bound from shaded patch to shaded patch, giggling and chiding each other when their new hiding spot isn’t big enough to house them all. The oldest couldn’t be more than twelve. Each has a satchel, each dress the same, though none of them look like they could be sisters. School children then.

Din sits on the stairs, half shaded half sweltering, and watches the children play. His mind wanders, and he wishes it wouldn’t. He remembers the wet marshlands of Sorgan and how the children had immediately taken to… He pushes the thought down, doesn’t want to think of his name. He doesn’t want to think about how he would have fun here now that the danger of the Krayt dragon was gone and the town had swelled in numbers. He doesn’t want to think about what can’t happen. He had done his duty, he was where he should be.

Doesn’t mean it has to like it.

As the children near the house another group comes screaming down the street, hooting and laughing and all dressed in green. The girls join the stampede as it runs full tilt past the house. Some peel off down side roads, others climb stairs to houses atop small store fronts across the street. He envies their freedom, hard won out here but theirs all the same. He wonders if any of them have experienced the kinds of things he had by the time he was their age. He hopes not. 

As the group thins out a child stops in front of him, a little girl, maybe six years old. Her dress looks old, a bit of a different style than the rest, hand me down perhaps. Her tan face is covered in large patches of freckles, her hair is fire red braided tightly in two rows that wrap around her shoulders, and her eyes are a reptilian yellow, just inhuman enough to be noticeable. She tilts her head as she examines him, and he tilts his head too.

A wide smile splits her spotted face, “Hi!” She shouts with so much enthusiasm it shakes her tiny body.

“Hi.” Din replies softly.

“What’s your name?” She asks. It’s a bit unsettling how intently those yellow eyes stare at him.

“Din,” He offers, “What’s yours?”

“Izabalo. But my friends call me Izy!” She says.

“That’s a good name.”

“Yours is too!” She calls, her little hands waving at her sides with excitement.

Din chuckles at that, unsure what more to offer her. He isn’t used to talking to a kid who has this much vocabulary. 

She looks down the street and Din follows her gaze. The last of the children seem to have scattered to their homes. When he looks back at her she’s standing at his feet, those yellow eyes making him feel a little bit see through.

“How come I’ve never seen you before?” She asks, unblinking.

“Oh, um, I’m new in town. I visited a while ago,” He omits the part where that visit entailed him killing a dragon, “And I liked it here enough to come back. I’m… on a vacation.”

“Are you a droid?” 

“No, it’s just a helmet.” Din explains, rapping his knuckles against the side of his helmet.

She stares at him for a little longer and smiles again. “You’re weird.”

Din laughs, “You aren’t the first to tell me that.”

She smiles so wide her eyes crinkle shut, a little bubbling giggle sneaking out between her teeth. “I like you.” She says, smacking her little hands on his bent knees, “You can call me Izy, too!”

“Ok.” He says, “I don’t have a nickname, but you can call me Din.”

“OK!” She shouts. “Oh!” She starts, bouncing on her toes and using his knees for balance, “Are you going to the Summers Eve Festival?”

Din stares at her blankly, not like she could tell. He’s worked on Tatooine a fair bit but small town traditions are something he had little time to learn. “I don’t know what that is.”

Izy scoffs and pushes away from him, twirling in a wide circle as she speaks. “It’s only the most fun week of the whole year! It’s a big party with lots of music and food and I have off from school for the whole week!”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“It _is_ fun!” She rushes back over to him again, taking one of his hands into both of hers, “So are you gonna come? Are you, are you, are you?” She bounces and clutches his fingers, flapping their hands up and down like a jump rope between them.

It takes everything in him to not hiss and yank his hand away like an angry tooka. 

“I’ll think about it.” He offers.

She smiles and her eyes shine with unrestrained glee even with his noncommittal answer. 

“Izabalo!” A voice bellows from down the street.

A woman with hair even more red piled on top of her head in a series of rope thick braids stands two blocks away leaning heavily on a cane. 

“Coming, mama!” Izy shouts.

She turns back to him, those wild eyes somehow finding his behind the visor. “The festival starts in two days!” She whispers loudly.

“Ok.” Din whispers back.

She smiles and drops his hand, running towards her mother. “Bye Mr. Din!” She calls back, waving hard enough to unbalance her gangly stride.

He waves back and catches her mothers eyes. She’s a sturdy woman, young but hardened as most are living among the dunes. The cane seems to aid with a mechanical leg that’s just a touch too short. She looks at him like Izabalo had, intent, as if he were transparent, maybe he was. He rubs at his hand nervously.

As Izabalo rushes to her side and grabs her skirt her expression softens, looking down at her daughter with a kind but chastising smile. She looks back up at Din and smiles at him, not quite as brightly as Izy had, but kindly enough. Din nods to her, hoping she will accept that as a smile in return.

He considers going to the Summers Eve Festival.

After the rush of children the street seems almost spooky in its emptiness. But the quiet has always been soothing to Din. He moves out of the sun and sits in one of Cobb’s old bolted down chairs, reluctant to go inside now that he’s had a taste of sunshine and wind. It’s somehow hotter than he expected despite not having his armor on. Although, every other time he’s been on Tatooine there has been work to do, things to keep him occupied, now the heat is the thing he’s here to observe.

He feels like he’s committing a scandal rolling the sleeves of his flight suit to his elbows, feels like a harlot when he opens the clasp at his neck and pulls the zipper down enough to let the warm breeze cool the sweat pooled in the dip of his collar bones. There’s a certain thrill to being alone in public and doing something you aren’t supposed to, though most people would be referring to crimes. His skin prickles at the feeling of wind brushing over the fine hair on his forearms and his mind races with thoughts he knows aren’t his own because he hears them in the Armorer’s voice. Forceful but quiet, condemning him for seeking his own Way when the one and only Way is right behind him in the house unattended in a pile on the floor of some non-Mandalorian’s bedroom. His hands itch to be covered, to roll his sleeves back down, get dressed and have him pretend that all of this, all of last night, was some kind of delusion. Forget the excited vibrating energy of Izabalo holding his fingers in her tiny grasp. Forget the rough edges and warm comfort of Cobb’s long knuckley fingers wrapped around his own. Forget it and get dressed and get back to work.

“Mornin’, sunshine!” He hears. He turns and sees Cobb sauntering down the street from the town square, all smiles under the glare of the twin suns. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

Din realizes that he’s nearly hyperventilating, the sound of his shallow breathing hissing inside his helmet and fogging the bottom of his visor.

“You alright?” Cobb asks, the smile gone and a concerned frown pinching his features together as he climbs onto the porch.

Din doesn’t know what to say. He probably isn’t alright but he doesn’t know how to articulate it. He had just been sitting here, enjoying his first experience with raw sunlight in probably twenty years when suddenly he couldn’t remember how long he had been sitting in this chair. His thoughts sounded like dogma and his heart was beating in his throat so hard he thought he might throw up.

“Din?” Cobb’s quiet voice brings him back out of his head. Cobb is crouched at his feet, looking up at him with those intense hazel eyes.

“I’m alright.” Din answers, knows his voice sounds hoarse, that people who are hyperventilating aren’t usually “alright”. But he isn’t bleeding so he’s more alright that normal he wagers.

“I’ll take your word for it but,” Cobb’s frown cracks for a rather insincere smile, “Mind if I ask what’s got you breathin’ like you’ve just out run a pack of massiff?”

How do you tell someone that you felt such overwhelming shame from cooling off on a hot day without seeming like a lunatic? Does he answer at all? He said he wouldn’t if he didn’t want to. Why does everything have to come down to talking? Things were much simpler when most of his problems could be solved at the end of a blaster.

But for some reason he wants Cobb to know. He wants to be understood.

Instead of having Cobb wait for his rattled thoughts to settle down Din pries his hands off the arm rests and raises them just enough to rotate his wrists back and forth, drawing Cobb’s eyes.

Cobb’s eyebrows pinch together in thought and Din can almost feel the pressure of his eyes on his skin. 

“Ah.” Cobb utters, a look of recognition on his face. “Feelin’ kinda sweaty, were ya?” 

There it was again, another one of those blinding smiles, roguish and charming like the charlatan he knows Cobb aims to be but cares too much to achieve. And Din actually feels a hitch in his breath, the sad dry crack of a laugh edging out of his mouth, forcing it into a smile on the way out.

That’s why he came. That’s why of all the places he knew, all the dark corners and uninhabited worlds he could hide in to piece himself together he chose Mos Pelgo. Because Mos Pelgo has Cobb Vanth.

“Yeah, never been on Tatooine in the summer.” 

“Don’t worry, friend,” Cobb says as he stands and plops his hand down on Din’s shoulder, “You’ll get used to it.” 

His words sound like they hold more significance, a double meaning to reassure him that his silence was still heard.

He winks and gives his shoulder a squeeze, “I was gonna take a little lunch break, if you want to join me.”

The twin feelings of pleasant shock and the reminder of guilt are a weird combo that Din wasn’t expecting for a casual touch, but that’s just how the day is going apparently. It’s like the sunlight on his hands; he wants to reach for more in case today is the last day he’ll know the feeling of someone else’s hands touching him kindly rather than violently.

That gives him pause. Another thought to be unpacked, another feeling to press fit in with all the others he doesn’t have space for.

“I- I just ate, thank you.” He replies with a nod, hoping Cobb will take his hand from his shoulder and go inside. 

“Suit yourself. I make a mean rehydrated meal.” He smiles crookedly and Din imagines he’ll remember the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles with his teeth for a long time.

He squeezes his shoulder once more and steps through the door, scrapping with the sound of age and sand, and Din feels like he can breath again. What must it be like for someone like Cobb, to just touch and be touched and not have it send his skin crawling. Does it ever mean more? Does he appreciate the way the sun feels versus the shade? 

Din looks back out to the street and lets out a long breath. Is this what baby steps are going to feel like? Are they even baby steps? Everything feels like so much but he knows that to others it must look like so little. He rolls his sleeves back down.

A few minutes go by and Cobb comes back outside with two mismatched cups in hand. One of them has a straw. He sits down next to Din in the other dusty chair with a sigh that sounds like the complaint of tired muscles and offers the cup with the straw to Din. 

“It’s just water.” He says when Din doesn’t immediately take the proffered cup. “I’m too old to start drinkin’ at noon two days in a row.”

“Sorry about that.” Din says quietly, taking the water.

“No need, friend.” Cobb waves him off, “I didn’t die now did I?”

That isn’t really the point but Din just shrugs, an almost agreement. Cobb stretches his legs out in front of him, long and gangly, and Din finds himself watching the weird way that he moves out of the corner of his eye. There’s an ease to him, a comfort in his movements that Din feels he used to know but has become lost to him. The past week has just been about going through the motions; wake up, eat, do whatever work was needed of him, clean whatever of him had gotten dirty, sleep, rinse and repeat. So much of his life had been occupied with the care of another and survival that he feels robotic now, unsure what to do with this body so honed for work it doesn’t need to do, like a droid with no objective.

He thinks of IG-11, designed to kill until reprogrammed. Din imagines he has a lot in common with him on his first days online after he had shot him in the head.

“Is there any work you need done around here, Marshal?” Din asks, if anything, to assuage this rising feeling of being a burden that he had kept at bay by maintaining Slave 1 to the point of annoying Fett during their journey.

Cobb makes a contemplative sound and rubs at the scruff of his jaw as he thinks. Din is oddly transfixed by it, another too natural motion. 

“Can’t say I’ve got anything specific that needs killin’, assuming that’s the skill you’re bringing to the table.”

“Whatever work needs to be done. Doesn’t have to be bounties.”

Cobb looks at him with a raised brow. Din looks back at him and hopes that the tilt of his head communicates a mirrored expression. Then Cobb smiles at him, and Din wonders if everyone smiles this much or if Cobb is an exception.

“What, you bored already?” He asks.

“Not necessarily. But if I can help while I’m here I gladly will.”

“Well, we got a little celebration comin’ up. I don’t take you for the partying type, but you could lend a hand with the set up.”

“The Summers Eve Festival?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” He asks, surprised.

“Some kids came running down the road and one of them told me about it. Sort of. Said there would be music and food and no school for a week.” He rubs his fingers together, remembering Izy’s grip as she pleaded with him to attend.

“That’s about the jist of it.” Cobb chuckles. “It’s the hottest week of the year usually, at times it can be dangerous to be ouside for too long, so the town decided years ago to just take that week off. Most of the fun happens after first sundown.”

“I’d be happy to help.” Din laughs a little at himself, “And you’re right, never been one for parties.”

“You don’t say.” Cobb mutters into his cup to hide his shit eating grin.

“Listen,” Din starts, and his defensive tone has Cobb snorting into his cup. “Last time I was at a party I was security and not only did I have to shoot _multiple_ people but I also had to clean vomit out of my boots. Kinda turned me off to parties.”

Cobb laughs, an unrestrained thing that has him setting his cup down just to hold his stomach, and Din can’t help but laugh too. A lot of things about Cobb Vanth seem to be infectious.

When Cobb gets himself together he raises a hand and puts the other over his heart, “You have my word, as the Marshal of the great town of Mos Pelgo, that you won’t have to shoot nobody and if someone pukes in your shoes I will clean them out personally.” 

“I appreciate your offer, but I hope it won’t be necessary.” Din smiles to himself, laughing at the idea of not only having to clean puke out of his shoes at the only two parties he’s gone to in years but to hand said shoes over to the Marshal of Mos Pelgo for cleaning.

“Hey I’ll even sweeten it for you, I’ll be _your_ security. _You_ get drunk and puke in someone else’s boots. If I’ve met anyone who needs to party for a week it’s you.” Cobb adds.

That startles a laugh out Din. Him? Getting so drunk he not only vomits in someone’s boots and basically being babysat while doing it? “I don’t know what you think I get up to in my spare time, Cobb, but I guarantee you that won’t be happening.”

Cobb jabs him lightly in the arm, another roguish smile on his lips, “Now, you know I was teasing you, tin man.”

“Good,” Din counters smuggly, tipping his helmet enough to fit the straw underneath, “Because we both know you’re the light weight.” 

Cobb puts a hand to his chest, an exaggerated aghast look on his face, “Darlin’ that just ain’t fair. You didn’t catch me on a good day. You can’t judge my skills on that.”

“Your skills in drinking?” 

“Anything’s a skill if you’ve practiced.” 

And they laugh, like this happens every day, like today is just a normal day in a normal person's life. And it’s so easy. Din can’t remember the last time he laughed so much, certainly not in one sitting. But Cobb makes it easy. Cobb makes this whole situation feel normal. Maybe this is what the new normal feels like, just him and Cobb on his sandy porch laughing at each other like they’ve been doing it for years. He isn’t sure if Cobb knows what he’s doing, if he knows how much of a bright spot he is in Din’s shit few weeks, but he’s grateful all the same. When he had first come to Mos Pelgo all those months ago he had thought that he could see easily why Cobb was so respected. He was a great fighter and a natural leader, sure, but now he sees the second layer, the parts you miss when the mission demands order over kindness. 

He has the thought to reach over and pat him on the shoulder like Cobb has, a gesture of friendship, affection if he was being honest. It won’t hurt. Maybe his hand will feel weird when it’s over but it won’t hurt. 

So he does.

“Thank you, I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.” Din says, squeezing at Cobb’s shoulder like he has, willing his gratitude through his fingers.

Cobb looks at him, looks at his hand, looks back at him with a surprised smile. He can feel the pressure of Cobb’s eyes searching his visor, every fiber of Cobb’s threadbare shirt, the heat of his skin reaching out to meet him. He has to look away, pull back, bring his hand back to his lap and clench it tight. He isn’t sure if he’s hoping to savor the feeling or will it away.

“Likewise, pal.” He says, his voice a little softer than before. 

Din nods in acknowledgement, even less sure of what to say now. He’s unsure of how to take the way Cobb’s voice turns gentle around him. Is it patronizing? Is it genuine? Is he even doing it on purpose? Has he earned gentleness from a man he’s known for a week then crashed in his home after months of radio silence? 

He’d never really known gentleness until he had to be the one to give it unconditionally, children will bring it out of you whether you thought you had any or not. It’s still forgein to receive it. But by the gods he’ll take it. He’ll take whatever Cobb is willing to give to him. He feels parched for it. Greedy for Cobb’s gentle voice and the heat of his skin and the rough fabric of his shirt just like the sunlight and sand and his understanding and his smiles.

But it can’t be this easy.

He stands abruptly like someone set the chair on fire. Faintly he hears Cobb calling after him as he steps off the porch but he can’t stay. He can’t stay there and soak up Cobb’s good graces like he’s deserving of any of it. He doesn’t know where he’s walking to but he picks up the pace, starts running wherever his legs are taking him. The sand is burning hot and his muscles feel weak but he runs. He doesn’t stop until a hand grips him by the bicep and forcefully spins him around.

“Din, what the _fuck_ are you doing?!” 

Cobb’s whole face is pinched in worry, those hazel eyes wide and burning into him. He’s got both hands on him now, gripping the fabric of his suit like it would stop him from running again if he put his mind to it. 

What was he doing? 

“Where did you think you would go, Din? You’ve got no shoes, no water, it’s a full day’s ride on a _speeder_ to Mos Eisley.” Din looks at his feet, can’t even look at him let alone answer him. He shakes him by his arms when he doesn’t respond. “Look at me, dammit!”

He does, he has to. Cobb lets go of his sleeves and raises his hands between them.

“I’m gonna touch your helmet. I ain’t gonna take it off.” He says, eyes searching the tinted visor.

Cobb’s hands stay in the air between them and his eyes never waiver, he waits. Din nods, can’t bare to speak.

Cobb watches him under his furrowed brows and raises his hands slowly. He feels the impact of Cobb’s palms resting in the hollow beskar cheeks of his helmet and shivers at the closeness. He’s not sure what sets his teeth on edge more; Cobb touching his bare skin or his helmet.

“Tell me you’re lookin’ at me.” Cobb says. 

“I’m looking at you.” Din replies reflexively.

“You ain’t lyin’ to me now, are you?”

He could. He could close his eyes or look over his shoulder and he wouldn’t know. But he doesn’t. He stares right back into his eyes. “No.”

“Then look at me and know I’m not lying when I say I don’t want you runnin’ off into the desert ‘cause you’re having some kind of moment, alright?” He nods, feeling the resistance of his hands on his face. “And I want that for me. I want to know you’re safe.”

Din tries to turn his head to look away but Cobb holds him still, “I ain’t done.” He ducks his head as much as Cobb will let him.

“You don’t gotta tell me why you started running, I can make my guesses. But tell me what I’m doin’ wrong.” He can feel the drag of Cobb’s thumbs smoothing over the metal as if trying to caress his cheekbones. 

Din tries to speak, clears his throat and it still feels like there’s sand trapped in there. “It’s not you.”

Cobb laughs, a humorless sound. “Are you about to ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, this right now?”

“It is me.” Din admits. He flexes his hands at his sides, still aching to touch and fearing it at the same time. He wants to reach up and cover Cobb’s hands with his and also bury them in the sand so they never touch anything ever again. “I don’t know how to explain it.” He puts his hands to his chest and bunches them in the familiar fabric of his flight suit like the motion alone could convey some sort of meaning. 

Cobb tilts his head back up and tries to find his eyes, “What do you want, Din?” His voice is quiet and gentle again.

It’s like he can see through him, knows he’s full of a want so strong it could strangle him. That’s why he’s here. Because Cobb Vanth would understand.

“I want to skip the parts where I feel guilty about everything.” He whispers, a slice of the truth, enough to not be damning. 

“That’s the tricky part, aint it?” Cobb asks, a smile crooking at his lips. Din nods into his hands, almost comforted by them now.

“I’m not gonna tell you to ‘just stop feeling that way’. It sounds just as stupid to me as it does to you.” Cobb pulls his face just a little closer, really makes sure he’s listening. Din wants to lean in further, press their heads together and not feel bad about it. “But I want you to think about why you’re feeling it. Is it ‘cause you’ve actually done something worth feeling guilty for, or have you just been told it’s something to feel guilty for?”

More thinking, more feeling. He feels so empty and yet too full. 

“I know, hard work huh?” Cobb asks, a sympathetic smile on his face. 

It must be written all over him. He remembers a time where he was seen as mysterious. Apparently all the shiny beskar is enough of a distraction for people to not notice the mess it protects.

“Now, what did I just get done telling you ten damn minutes ago?” Cobb asks. Din tilts his head in question. “It’s too hot out this time of year to be running around like a damn fool!”

Cobb pats him on the side of the head then loops his arm around his shoulders, nearly dragging him back towards the town, and Din lets him. 

“You know, I knew you were an idiot but damn I thought you had a little bit more self preservation than that.” Cobb mutters, jostling him for emphasis.

Din lets out a dry laugh, as always, made easier because it’s Cobb, “What about any of the stories that I told you made you think that?”

Cobb barks out a laugh and Din feels it everywhere that Cobb has pressed himself to his side. He must not know what he’s doing, that this is what made him run into the desert like he was being chased by ghosts. He must not realize just how much he makes Din yearn to be free of his self-made prison.

But he could at least not let it drive him to be reckless, that’s as small of a baby step as he could possibly manage. He can let Cobb walk him back to town, hold him like the friend he’s trying to be. They agreed that Cobb didn’t have to ask about touching him if it wasn’t his skin, and that had seemed safe enough. Din just hadn’t expected it to… awaken anything. Is that the right word? It almost feels perverse to think. Makes this casual interaction, Cobb’s arm wrapped around him in comfort, feel wrong, like he’s taking advantage of Cobb and his kindness. 

That’s probably one of those things Cobb asked him to think about.

“I was gonna do a wide perimeter check before-” Cobb stops talking just to sigh in disdain, “Going to the magistrate and doing fucking paperwork. You’re welcome to join me on that busted ass speeder you brought, though I won’t subject you to the torture of clerical work.”

“I think I’ll pass for today.”

“Alright.” 

They make it back into town and Cobb ushers him inside where Din nearly groans at the feeling of the cool floor on his sand cooked feet.

“Teach you to go running around with no shoes on.” Cobb teases.

“Alright, alright,” Din waves him off, sitting on the couch and massaging some feeling back into his heat numbed feet, “If you haven’t noticed I’m not exactly in my right mind lately.”

Cobb laughs and tosses his boots towards him, “At least be out of your mind with your boots on.”

“Fine.”

He watches Cobb rummage through the closet in the hallway and pull out a pair of goggles and a stiff brimmed hat. Din hadn’t thought that he could have looked more like a small town marshal than he already had but he was wrong again. But he looked good, put together. He’d gotten himself some new armor (accented in red of course) that actually fits his wiry frame. The addition of what he assumed was riding gear just completed the look.

Din looked back down at where he was failing to secure his boot. 

“Now,” Cobb starts, “If I catch you wanderin’ around out there without your damn boots and some supplies I won’t hesitate to give you a little love tap with my speeder and haul your ass back here.” 

Din laughs at that, care couched in a threat, a language they both speak so well. “Yes, sir.” He says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Smart man.” Cobb touches the brim of his hat and winks before pulling his goggles up over his eyes and heading out the back door.

Din sits in the silence of the house broken only by the sound of Cobb’s speeder sputtering to life, growing fainter as he rides off. He slumps against the couch with a deep sigh. He takes his helmet off and holds it out in front of him, staring into the blank visor. He slots his hands into the cheeks, runs his thumbs over the high ridges, looks into it like he hopes to see his own eyes staring out at him from behind the tinted glass. He wipes the sweat from his face and puts the helmet back on.

He doesn’t know why, but he goes into the bedroom and puts on his armor. Maybe it’s just for the sake of doing it, maybe it’s the call of the familiar after so many novel things. There’s always a certain comfort to returning to the familiar, like a warm drink on a cold night. 

He had always thought of his armor in the most practical and objective terms first; his line of work was dangerous and it pays to be as protected as possible. He didn’t always think of it in the subjective; this holds my identity, this is who I am. But he had still felt like him, if not the best version of himself, without it on. He still had his own thoughts and wants and needs. His shoulder still twinges if he moves it in a weird way. He still puts his right boot on before the left. He still remembers how to disassemble his blaster, the coordinates of his last mission, the sounds of children laughing. 

He must still be him, even without what he had thought made him who he was.

He decides to go for a walk, see the town that he’s calling home for the time being. He takes the time to leave a note for Cobb in case he comes back and finds him missing, he doesn’t need “being run over by a modded podracer” added to his list of shit things that happened this week. 

The sunlight feels different now, muted, not as new and exciting but beautiful all the same. He doesn’t know where he’s walking to this time either, but he keeps his pace slow and his eyes up and lets his mind wander. He has no ship, hardly any credits, no contracts. He’s empty and yet too full. So he walks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV switches back and forth at every -- starting with Din. 
> 
> Also thank you again for all the kind comments <3

A small bell chimes overhead as Din opens the door to a little shop that advertised things like tools and home repair in the street facing window. The inside was dim, though it's hard to compete with the light from outside. Everything on the shelves is neat and orderly, if not a little dust covered, many of the tools he doesn't recognize. He hears a scuttling sound from down a small corridor and his hand reflexively hovers over his hip. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" A reedy voice hollers. A very small person with wiry black hair and jaundice yellow skin, no higher than his hip, emerges from a back room wearing a grease covered apron and large magnifying spectacles. They look him up and down as they wipe their hands in their apron. "Can I help you?" 

"Yes, do you sell paint?" 

\--

“Went for a walk, back by nightfall. -Din”, reads the note left on Cobb’s kitchen table.

Cobb has a little chuckle at Din’s note. It’s so short and stilted, exactly the kind of note you would expect from him. It’s written in Basic, but the characters are all very tall and narrow, some even had an odd slant to them. Not like Cobb could complain about his weird handwriting when his was as sloppy as a childs.

His paperwork had taken longer than expected, everything needs so many damn signatures nowadays, but that's what happens when your town starts getting big enough that it needs new services. So Cobb doesn’t return home until the first sunset. But how can he complain when his people are free, safe, and being taken care of? 

Din is still away, taking nightfall quite literally it seems. 

\--

"Excuse me?" Din asks as he pulls back the sheer dividing curtain. 

The woman behind the counter looks up from a holopad over a pair of what must be the most uselessly small reading glasses. A single white curl of hair peeks out from under an intricate head scarf, her clothes are perfectly tailored and far cleaner than most he's seen on the planet let alone the town, and she eyes him like she's just found a rare catch. He images she has. 

"Well hello there! Welcome to Morticia's, where the looks are to _die_ for." She sets her holopad down delicately and stands, eyes never leaving his form, "What can I do for you, handsome?" 

Din had always thought it odd that people were so willing to find him attractive despite always actively trying to obscure his appearance. Was it the armor? His physique? Did these people compliment droids too? 

"I need some clothes that aren't," He gestures broadly to himself, "And I haven't bought clothes that weren't a flight suit in… a while." 

"Well darling you've come to the right place," She coos, coming to take him by the arm and lead him further into the store, "Let Morticia take care of you." 

Din recoils from her hands but she latches onto his arm anyway, "I don't think this is ne-" 

"Hush now," She clamps both spindly hands around his bicep, "It absolutely is, I mean look at you," Her words are punctuated by a few more squeezes, "You're a disaster." 

Din sighs. 

"Now, what's your favorite color, dear?" 

\--

Cobb decides to give himself a little indulgence for putting up with that insufferable magistrate and his ass kissing assistant for hours. He uses the fresher and spends an inordinate amount of time in there, grooming his hair and trimming his beard, makes himself real pretty if only so he can smile when he looks at himself in the mirror. He goes into his room, currently Din's room, and searches his dresser for the one shirt he never subjects to the rough sand. The smooth fabric gives it away before his eye catches it, soft white and a little loose, by far his most comfortable shirt. 

He looks at the room while he changes. It's like Din has never been here. The sheets are a mess but he won't ever claim to make the bed himself. The only thing that may give away the other man's presence is the beskar spear propped in the corner. 

"Oh, I should make dinner." Cobb mutters to himself as he leaves the room, "Something nice. Cheer us both up." 

\--

Din sighs in relief when he finally exits the boutique. He had gotten exactly what he had come for and though he refused to try anything on in front of that woman she had taken great pleasure in measuring him around every possible point of his body to assure that his new clothes would fit him. He shakes his arms out like an animal shaking off the rain to get the feeling of her hands and her measuring tape off of him. 

The suns are starting to lean towards the horizon, he’s been out walking laps around the town nearly all afternoon, taking breaks in the shade when the roasting heat became too much and making as close to small talk as he could manage with some of the locals. He takes a moment to stop on a bench in the town square and look down the long main road that eventually leads straight into the empty dunes. The first sun looks to have only a few minutes until it touches the horizon. He hasn’t really watched a sunset in a while. There’s something about seeing it from the ground that you just can’t capture from space, a certain splendor in the way the sky changes color, a sense of peace even with the drama of blue giving way to oranges and purples. 

The sky is still the sky even if it changes, isn’t it?

Din decides on one more stop for the evening, the cantina, to see if they’ll sell him a bottle to take home.

\--

"Where in the _hell_ did I put that frying pan?" 

Cobb has upended every drawer and opened every cabinet, you would think he'd been robbed by the look of it. He could very well make dinner without it, but then he would have to cook the real nice meat he was saving in the oven and that just won't do. If you're gonna treat yourself you have to do it right. Besides, if he's going to have Din as his guest he may as well spoil him a little, Maker knows that man needs a little spoiling. 

"Ah ha!" Cobb exclaims from under the bed. “Damn womp rat litter scurrying through my shit." 

Cobb heads back to the kitchen with a renewed spring in his step. 

"Din’s probably never had meat as good as what I'm 'bout to make." 

\--

He wonders if it would have been cheaper to brew his own liquor for the price the barkeep had charged him. Din had never been one to drink, but Cobb seemed to like it, and he could use a repayment. It’s not much but once he has his head on straight he hopes to get some work and help compensate him for his stay. He’ll consider this a gift, a thank you until he can do more. 

The second sun is just touching the horizon as he reaches the end of town where he parked his… donated speeder. The sky is a deep red, his favorite part. So he sits on the speeder and watches the sun creep under the horizon and the stars start speckling the sky. He’s done a lot of that lately, just watching things. It’s like he’s making up for all the times he couldn’t just enjoy a view without looking over his shoulder. 

He feels a pang of guilt for that thought. Sure, his life has been made much safer now that he’s made the kid safe and put Gideon out of the picture, but it’s also lost a bit of it’s joy. He would gladly give up this sunset if… But he couldn’t, could he. 

He secures his bag and starts up the speeder, driving away from the sunset towards Cobb’s home.

\--

Cobb has all but forgotten the frustrations of work. He’s cleaned the tiny pile of dishes and the house is starting to smell like something other than the standard dry dusty air. Is half the meal just rehydrated crap from his cupboards? Of course it is. But the other half is some fresher root vegetables from the nice old farmer down the road and cured bantha meat. 

He steps back from his simmering food and hums, appraising the space as a whole.

“Needs music.” 

He flips through his collection, half of it older than he is and most of it recorded from cantina performances, and picks one of his favorites from when he was a younger man. Some of the few fond memories he has from his days in servitude are from the classy parties he was brought to where, in the stolen moments, he and the other slaves would dance together. You had to make your own joy then. Though, he supposes you have to make your own joy out here in the dunes, too. But now he has the choice, and that makes the difference.

“That’s better.” He says, and heads back to the stove as the somewhat distorted sounds of music fill the room.

He hums as he stirs his vegetables, “I wonder if Din knows how to dance.”

A fond smile warms his face at the idea of Din “no partying” Djarin trying to dance. He wonders if he would let him teach him some moves.

\--

Din parks his speeder next to the small garage behind Cobb’s house. He opens the door and is greeted by the uniquely tinny sound of bootleg jazz recordings and the smell of cooking food, good food at that. Cobb is at the stove, swaying back and forth and humming along to the music, something slow and crooning. It’s one of those songs that makes you long for something, feel nostalgic for a past that wasn’t yours, or a lover you never had.

And Din feels trapped in that hallway, transfixed but intrusive. He’s supposed to be here but this moment isn’t his, longing for something he can’t name, or maybe he could if he were a bit less cowardly.

Cobb perks at the sound of the door and turns to face him, tongs in hand, and he smiles when he sees him. All sunshine and starlight like he’s supposed to be there.

“Welcome back, partner.” He says, gesturing for him to come in further, “Hope you’re hungry. I made somethin’ special tonight.”

He was hungry, starving really.

When he gets closer he sees Cobb has every burner in use and everything looks as delicious as it smells. 

"Well don't you shine up pretty like a new imperial credit." Cobb says cheerily, not disguising the way his eyes track up and down his body as he appraises the apparent shine of his armor. 

He’s never sure how to feel about people complimenting his armor. He does take pride in keeping it maintained but it’s never been a source of vanity to him. So he doesn’t comment on it.

“I got you something.” He says, pulling a shimmering bottle of spotchka out of his bag.

Cobb’s eyes go a little wide as he takes it in, no doubt knowing the kind of money that bartender would try to weasel out of him for it. “For me?” He asks, a small delighted smile pulling at his lips as he points to himself coyly with his greasy tongs.

Din sets it on the counter and keeps his eyes on the contrast of his gloved hand on the neck of the bottle and the glowing drink rather than stare at Cobb and his little smile, “For letting me stay here, and…” He trails off, not sure how to concisely word all that Cobb has already done for him.

Cobb’s hand settles lightly around Din’s and to his surprise he doesn’t recoil from it this time, but something in his insides squirms, aches in a way wholly different from the way he’s been aching in his grief. The singer's voice swells and Cobb’s thumb brushes lazily over the cork of the spotchka.

“You don’t gotta get me anything for that.” His voice is quiet as his thumb slides down to brush over his. “Helpin’ you is reward enough.”

He hopes the wobbly breath he took wasn’t loud enough for the modulator to pick up. Din won’t ever claim to be the best at reading people, certainly not in this context, but this seems like something. And somethings are not things he knows how to deal with. Not when everything feels new and raw and broken. Not even when it didn’t. 

He keeps his eyes on their hands, slides his thumb out from under Cobb’s and rests it on top, the smallest gesture he thinks anyone could manage. Cobb squeezes his hand lightly, but nothing more. The song ends on an uplifting note, the sound all false nostalgia makes, the contented sigh of the lover you never had.

“Why don’t you set the table while I finish up.” Cobb suggests, voice still hushed. 

His hand lingers a moment longer before he pulls away, and the heat of him lingers a moment longer still. The next song starts, Din moves to the cupboards to gather plates.

Cobb clears his throat and flips the steak, “So what kept you out so late?”

“Walked around town. A lot. Thought about stuff. A lot. Bought a few things.” Din fidgets with how straight his fork is on the table. “Got myself a project for tonight.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Cobb asks, scooting over to the table with his pan to plate dinner.

He could just tell him. It’s not something he could keep a secret. But he thinks the look on Cobb’s face tomorrow morning would be worth it. “I’ll show you tomorrow.” He hears the smile in his own voice.

“Alright.” Cobb chuckles.

Din hesitates next to the table, thinks about thanking Cobb for what will no doubt be a delicious dinner and retreating to the privacy of the bedroom like he has on so many other occasions, but sits, commits to taking another step. 

“You want a drink, sweet thing?” Cobb asks, uncorking the bottle with a happy little smile on his face.

Din hasn’t been paying all the little endearments any mind, chalking it up to just the way Cobb speaks, but maybe he should.

“Sure.” 

He pours them two generous drinks and sets them down, straw included, and joins him at the table with a crack and a pop from a couple joints and a self satisfied sigh. Din takes his glass and holds it between them. Cobb raises an eyebrow but mirrors him.

“To new beginnings.” Din offers and taps their glasses together.

Cobb smiles, “To new beginnings.” He echos.

Din forgoes the straw and drinks. He appreciates that Cobb adverts his eyes even though he’s sure he’s curious. A growing part of him wants Cobb to look, get to know him in pieces. He doesn’t bring that up, he’ll let Cobb make his choices.

“So,” Cobb starts around a mouthful of rehydrated bread, “Let me tell you about this asshole I’ve had to hire.” 

Din is happy to listen, and Cobb sounds like he could go on for hours. The magistrate seems to pluck at every single one of Cobb’s nerves from the way he holds a pen to whatever asinine judgements he makes day to day. But Cobb always stops short of wishing him away, duty bound to uphold the laws of his town and keep his people safe. The fact that the Marshal seems to have retained all but absolute veto power in the town helps settle Cobb’s barely held together temper. Cobb’s word isn’t necessarily the law, but it does hold a hefty amount of weight. 

Throughout Cobb keeps looking away, keeps averting his eyes for every covert bite he takes. Din almost wants to stop eating so Cobb will just look at him. 

Some days he’s truly grateful for the helmet, it hides what feels like dumb expressions and flushed cheeks. Some days it's because his eyes linger a little too long on the curl of his mustache or the little mole under his eye. He clears his plate if only for a reason to focus on something else.

“Damn it feels good to complain sometimes. Especially good to complain to someone who ain’t a gossip.” Cobb says, pouring himself another drink.

Din scoots his glass over in request, to which Cobb obliges. “Your grievances are safe with me. Mando'ad draar digu bal Mando'ad draar rejorhaa'ir.” He says and takes a big swig of the spotchka.

“Excuse me?” Cobb’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he drinks.

“It’s Mando’a. Means ‘a Mandalorian never forgets and a Mandalorian never tells.’”

“How many languages do you know?” 

“Other than Basic: Mando’a, Tusken sign, Huttese, and enough Jawaese to get in trouble.”

Cobb whistles and downs the other half of his drink with a shudder, “And here I thought I was smart shit with Huttese and Jawa.”

“I could teach you more Tusken sign. Your traders in town seem to do well with it, could help in case of any further conflict if you knew enough to step in.”

“What about Mando’a?” Cobb asks. The word sounds weird in his accent, loosened even further by the liquor.

Din doesn’t answer. He knows it’s an innocent inquiry. Cobb has heard stories of Mandalorian’s but doesn’t know the Creed. He turns his cup in his hands and looks down at the shimmering drink hoping to find a response in its sparkling depths.

“Or not. Pretend I didn’t ask.” Cobb says, a fake sort of nonchalance to his voice, topping off Din’s drink and pouring himself another.

“I’ll think about it.”

He looks up and their eyes meet, Cobb looks at him seriously like he’s trying desperately to read meaning from his blank face. “It’s not a no. I just have to think about it.” Din clarifies.

“Alright. But don’t let me pressure you into shit that I ain’t welcome to.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.” Din says, shifting to take another sip. 

“That’s the attitude I missed.” Cobb thumps his hand on the table and laughs, all teeth and wrinkled eyes. “I knew it was still in there. Just had to feed you and put some liquor in ya to get it to come back out.”

“Would you rather I go back to making threats?”

“Well I would not want to be at the end of your blaster, as I do put a high value on livin’.” Cobb rambles, gesticulating with his cup that threatens to spill on the table, “But you have to admit, you made quite the impression.” He puts his unoccupied hand to his hip like he’s readying a blaster, “Take it off, or I will.” He says in a gravelly voice, an approximation of his modulator. He giggles to himself, amused with his own impression. 

Din laughs at it too. He was so serious sometimes wasn’t he? He had a thought to reply but Cobb keeps going, leaning his elbow on the table and pointing his spotchka at him.

“Honey I’ll be honest, in that moment there was a part of me that would have let you had I thought I’d live to tell the tale.” Cobb says with what Din could only describe as a flirtatious smile.

Ah. More somethings he doesn’t know how to deal with. Din swallows down a lump in his throat.

“I- uhm- well,” He stutters. Why is he stuttering? When did he start doing that? “If you offered to just take it off, I would have let you live.”

Spotchka must be stronger than the whiskey, because Cobb just grins at him and leans his cheek into his glass, the remnants of his drink shining off his moon-eyed face, “I do thank my lucky stars that Krayt dragon came slitherin’ through town that day, saved my skin, I’m sure.”

Din catches his own eyes wandering down the column of Cobb’s neck, bare tonight with no scarf and a loose shirt that hangs open to the middle of his chest. They snap up to meet Cobb’s and that feels no safer. He should say something.

“I didn’t want to kill you.” He says. _Stellar._

“You’re too kind.” Cobb winks.

Din adjusts himself in his seat, hot under the collar and regretting his lone-wolf lifestyle leaving him out of his depth when it comes to flirting, if that’s what this is. Maybe he doesn’t know how to flirt but he can at least be honest. “I was looking for an ally. I still made one in the end. The isolation wasn’t the only reason I came back, you know. I came here because you were here.”

“Which just tickles me pink.” Cobb smiles softly and finishes his drink. He just looks at him, doesn’t hide the way his eyes wander over the wide arc his pauldrons make and Din feels exposed again, at a loss for what is expected of him. Cobb’s eyebrows draw together for a moment, and his mouth purses in thought, and Din knows even less now. 

“What did you think of my little town? People treat you right?” 

That was… an unexpected subject change. But at least it’s a subject he knows.

“Everyone is very kind. Very helpful.” He chuckles a little to himself when he remembers his experience clothes shopping, “A little too helpful sometimes.”

Cobb smiles broadly, a knowing look in his eyes, “Did you meet Morticia?” 

“I did.”

“Bit of a handful, ain’t she?”

“She certainly liked getting her hands full.” He shutters a bit, exaggerating his discomfort, but only a little.

Din doesn’t miss the way Cobb’s eyes sweep over him again, his tongue darting out beneath his mustache briefly, “Ms. Tish does love a man in uniform.” His brow furrows, “You go clothes shopping then?” He asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“Well?” He gestures for him to continue, eyes bright with excitement, “What did you get? I want to see a Mandalorian fashion show!”

The idea of modeling in any form makes Din flush with embarrassment, “They aren’t anything special, just a shirt and pants, functional for the heat.”

“And you aren’t wearing them?” Cobb asks, almost offended at the idea of Din not immediately changing.

“It’s not hot out anymore.” Cobb rolls his eyes and Din continues, “I was going to wear them tomorrow when I’m helping with the Festival.”

“Was that your ‘secret project’?” Cobb asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“No.” 

“Can’t you give me a little bit more to go on?” 

Cobb leans forward on his elbows, clearly falling on old habits of using his charm and good looks to pry information out of people. He even tilts his head and bats his eyes. He clearly doesn’t know that that technique never gets anyone anywhere when it comes to Din keeping secrets. So Din leans on the table and mirrors Cobb. 

Din holds his gaze and tilts his head and says with as sweet a tone he can manage, “No.” 

The way Cobb’s face drops is too funny for Din to hold in his laughter, like it’s the first time anyone has told him no. He doesn’t stay down too long though, something low and smoldering catches in his eyes and he brightens back up, laughing right along.

“You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.” Cobb says, reaching over and playfully patting at his hand on the table.

He doesn’t know why, but he turns his hand over, catching Cobb’s. It feels different, less intense, with his gloves on. But also more so because he instigated this. Cobb’s hands are different from his, long fingers and visible calluses and scars, odd looking compared to his black and orange leather gloves. He hasn’t even looked back at Cobb’s face, the silence is what makes him pull back, makes him aware of what he’s doing. He’s certain that Cobb’s hands have done just as terrible of things as his, but they haven’t done what he’s done. 

But Cobb’s fingers chase after him, catching him by the wrist. His grip is light, he could pull away if he wanted to.

“Hey,” His voice is soft again like it was before, “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know.” He replies, and it’s almost honest.

“You don’t gotta run,” He squeezes his wrist gently, “Whatever’s wrong, you don’t gotta run.”

Gods he wants that to be true. He doesn't want to run. He turns his hand over again, letting Cobb slip his fingers back into his grip. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, partner.”

“Why are you doing this?” He squeezes his fingers then gestures more broadly.

Cobb smiles in that easy way of his, “Well dinner was for me first ‘cause I had a shit day. But then I thought ‘Hey, Din’s had a bit of a shit day too. Why don’t we spoil him a little?’” He looks away, down to their joined hands, “And this,” He squeezes his hand back, “If I’ve met anyone in my life in need of some kindness, it would be you.”

"Need?" He echos.

“Yeah, people don’t think about it when they think about needs. They’ll say food and water, but no one remembers good ol’ fashion human interaction.” Cobb runs his thumb over the back of Din’s fingers, easy like the spotchka bottle. 

It does feel like a need, doesn't it? The ache he feels whenever someone, Cobb more specifically, touches his arm gently or holds his hands. It feels like he's been needing it. 

He rubs his thumb over the back of Cobb's fingers in return, "What, am I some kind of plant? Just have to water me and I'll bloom?" He asks with a tired chuckle. 

"Now I don't know 'bout all that," Cobb starts, tugging Din's hand a little closer to cover it loosely with his other hand, "But I reckon you've been needing a little taking care of for quite a while." 

Din shifts in his seat but doesn't pull away, "Never been a need before." 

"It's always been a need, you just strike me as a 'my needs last' kind of guy." 

Din smiles even if Cobb can't see it, "You're not wrong."

Cobb's fingers wander toward where the glove meets his vambrace, just touching the tips of his fingers to the smooth metal, "You know I bet if someone hugged you you'd damn near short circuit." 

There's a mischievous curl to his lips and his eyes stay on his hands. It almost sounds challenging. It almost sounds like… 

"Marshal," Cobb looks up under his eyebrows, "Do you want to hug me?" 

\--

There's an incredulity to his question that is honestly funny to think about. This man near single handed took out a dragon and still side-eyes everything as a potential threat. Sure, Cobb may not have pure motives but his intent is good. Maybe he wants to feel the hard earned muscle of this dark and mysterious gunslinger who could probably kill him with his bare hands and not break a sweat, hold those same hands that gently cradled a child like he was made of glass. Maybe he can also see that he needs some bloody comfort for once in his life and damn ain't it just a stroke of luck that Cobb would love to give it. 

"Would you believe me if I said it was for purely altruistic reasons?" He asks, trying to look innocent but knows he looks like the loth-cat that caught the canary, smiling wide with his briney spotchka teeth.

Din tilts his head and somehow that conveys more than most folks, "Not when you word it like that."

"Alright how about this," Cobb starts, rolling Din’s gloved hand over to press his thumbs into all the creases, "When I first got free I did little odd jobs for whoever would take me in Mos Eisley, even fixed a hover cart for a sweet old lady who could only pay me in a hot meal. And let me tell you, that lady was so grateful for my fixin' that she hugged me good and tight. I cried for damn near an hour in that woman's arms." He smiles at the memory, bitter-sweet now that he's away from it. "At the time I couldn't tell ya what I was crying for. But now I know it's 'cause no one had held me kindly in years, and by the gods did I need it." 

Din has sat motionless as Cobb fiddles with the worn leather of his glove, only his breathing giving him away as a living creature and not a statue.

“Just sayin’, I know the signs.”

"You want me to cry?" He asks with a tilt of his head that reads like the dubious raising of an eyebrow. 

“If that’s what you’re gonna do, then yeah. Get it out of your system, get you feelin’ like a human again.”

There’s a pause, a loud silence, “I do feel human.”

“Do ya?” Cobb draws his thumb across Din’s, splaying his palm out.

There’s a tension in Din’s hand, Cobb can almost feel the skin crawling underneath the leather, like it’s fighting to leap out and reach him. 

“Sometimes.”

“Then what do ya say?” He traces a line from the tip of Din’s thumb down around the meat of his palm and to the tip of his middle finger, “Give ol’ Cobb a little lovin’. I won’t do no fun business.” He draws his pinkie over the ghost of that thick white scar then loops it around his. “I pinkie promise.”

Din lets out a breath, something in the vein of a sigh, and curls his pinkie to seal the deal.

“Sure.”

Cobb smiles, a wolfish little thing, but reigns it in with what little self control he has left today. “You ain’t just indulgin’ an old nerf-herder, are you?”

“No.” He says, pushing away from the table, “My people skills are… rusty. I need practice.”

Cobb snickers and stands, “If that’s what you wanna tell yourself, sweetheart.”

He sways on his feet, the spotchka turning his knees a bit watery. And just like last time Din’s got his hand clamped around his knobby elbow.

“Thank the Maker I’ve been drinkin’ around you lately, I’d’ve fallen on my ass by now.” Cobb laughs and locks a knee to steady himself.

“Put some meat on your bones, maybe you won’t get so drunk.” Din quips.

“Shut your trap you salty nephran and come here.” He says, opening his arms and beckoning the Mandalorian forward.

He hesitates like Cobb might bite his hand off if he moves too fast. Again he’s reminded of a protocol droid, a bit stiff and stilted at joints that should move smoothly. But Cobb waits for him, tilts in kind when Din picks the side he wants to lean to, and wraps his arms around him once the cold metal of his chestplate makes contact to his liquor warm skin. It’s like hugging a droid too, hard edges and cold outer shell. 

“There ya go, get on in there.” He encourages, tightening his arms, finding a soft spot between plates on his lower back to press his fingers into.

Those soft spots aren’t all that soft though, the worn canvas fabric of his cuirass and suit are more utility than comfort, and the flesh beneath only gives so much before reaching battle hardened muscle. But Cobb takes his secret pleasure in knowing these not so soft spots, that his hands have been brought to touch them rather than pushed away.

For a moment Din doesn’t move, just holds his arms around him, hands barely touching his back. But as the beskar between them begins to warm there’s a shift, a changing in the wind that Cobb was waiting for. Shallow puffs of air start whistling behind the modulator, his ribs jerking in bursts under his hands. His helmet drops heavy against his shoulder as his arms start coiling tighter, holding him in earnest, nearly constricting.

“How’s that?” Cobb asks, patting at the plate on his back, “Feels nice, right?”

Din’s voice is tight and breathy when he answers, “Yeah.”

“Good.” He coos, hooking a hand up where neck meets shoulder and pressing him closer to his chest. “That’s good.”

Din squeezes himself in tighter, there isn’t an inch of give between them and the beskar is digging into his ribs but he sure as shit ain’t bringing that up, not when he’s only just got here.

“I’m sorry.” Din whispers, frail and wet.

“Why?”

Din doesn’t answer, Cobb can hear the slipping of gears inside that helmet.

“Why are you sorry, Din?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you do something bad over there in the past thirty seconds that I didn’t notice?” He butts the side of his head into Din’s helmet.

“Probably not.” Din sniffles.

“Then ain’t no need for sorry.” Cobb squeezes him tighter until he’s hooked his arms together around Din’s back, locking him in. “Not here, not with me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then taps his helmet gently into Cobb’s neck, “Ok.”

“Ok.” Cobb repeats, resting his head against Din’s.

Another song starts, something sappy he used to dance slow and close with whoever would let him. Cobb had forgotten that he had left it on, but is happy he did. He closes his eyes and hums along with a fond smile, slowly swaying Din back and forth to the beat. Din somehow manages to squeeze him tighter and Cobb feels he knows what it’s like to be trapped in a trash compactor when something pops in his spine, pressing the breath from his lungs with a startled laugh.

“Sorry.” Din says again, loosening his grip and tries to peel away.

But Cobb holds fast, following him to keep the heat trapped between their bodies, “Hey now, I just said no sorry here.”

Cobb oversteps, leans a bit too much of his not considerable weight forward on his watery knees. But Din’s wide hands cup his sides as he steps back into him, catching his weight against his chest. He can feel the heat coming off of him, the motor running fast and the computer thinking hard. 

“You have terrible balance.” Din’s hushed voice is loud in his ear, his helmet still tucked into the crook of his neck.

“You have good reflexes.” Cobb counters, taking the opportunity to readjust his hold on him and sling his other arm over Din’s shoulder.

It really is like dancing now, though his partner seems a bit at a loss, frozen in stasis.

“You know how to dance, Mando?” Cobb asks with a sway of his hips.

“No.” He mirrors Cobb, swaying slowly.

“I bet you’d learn fast.” He leans his head into Din’s again and holds his own hands behind his neck.

“Maybe.”

Cobb doesn’t push the topic any further, just enjoys the closeness, he’s been lacking in comfort lately too. There’s a loneliness that pervades the desert and it’s not something you can escape without working for it. And Cobb just hasn’t. He’ll say he’s too busy, or it would be irresponsible for a man with his authority to pursue someone when just about everyone technically works for him in some way or another, or that no one has caught his eye or he hasn’t caught anyone else’s. But ask anyone and they’d say it’s all a crock of shit. All just excuses. Those who have been here with him since the beginning know what’s been holding him back. He knows too, just doesn’t want to admit it. Just wants to play his game and flirt like it doesn’t mean anything and hope that, if in the end it doesn't, that he at least got a little something out of it. Some good memories to keep him company when the nights are dark and cold and the covers don’t help because they’re empty.

“Hey,” Din says quietly, startling Cobb from his thoughts, “I’m gonna move, but… you don’t have to let go.”

“Alright.” Cobb replies, a bit confused, but doesn’t let go.

Din pushes him back half a step, just enough for him to pull his head off his shoulder and look at him. Cobb is hit with the want to see his face, if only for this moment. But that’s a truly selfish want, so he just smiles instead.

“Just… stand still.” He says.

Cobb raises an eyebrow but doesn’t move otherwise, “Sure.”

Din’s hands on his sides flex, like they aren’t sure if they want to pull him closer or push him away. Then Din moves, a little slow and robotic, and touches the forehead of his helmet gently to Cobb’s. His eyes strain to focus on something with Din’s visor so close, so he closes them, it feels like the right thing to do. Din’s hands curl in his shirt and he presses in a little harder, the sound of a heavy breath crackles behind the modulator. Cobb’s not sure if he should move or not, he gets the feeling that something of significance is happening and that there is a right way to respond that he just doesn’t know. But he isn’t normally one to let that deter him, so he pushes back, cradles the back of Din’s cold helmet with his warm hands. He feels the fabric of his shirt pull tight against his back and a quiet breathy laugh slips past Din’s modulator.

“Can I ask about this?” Cobb asks, keeping his eyes closed.

Din laughs again, a little louder, and relaxes a little. “Ask me later.”

“I’ll hold you to it, baby.”

“I’ll tell you. Just not now.” Din assures, taking a full step back to separate. 

Feels like Din took all the heat away with him, the polite distance now far more distasteful than before.

“Feel better? Little more human?” Cobb asks, if only to think of something other than holding onto him again. 

Din looks down and away, and Cobb gets the distinct impression that he’s a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, I think you may have been right.”

“Happens more often than you might think.” Cobb grins and swipes the bottle of spotchka off the table, looking to get rid of the cold without pressing at things he shouldn’t.

“Hey,” Din’s hand hovers over his wrist as he’s meaning to bring the bottle to his lips, “I think you’re good.”

Cobb appreciates the concern, really he does. But if he ain’t gonna warm him up then he doesn’t have a say. So he licks his lips and steps closer to hook his arm around the offending hand, keeping his eyes on where he thinks Din’s are as he takes a swig of the fluorescent drink. Din just watches, still as a statue again.

“Am now.” He winks and sets the bottle back on the table.

Din lowers his hand but keeps his gaze on him, like he’s trying to figure him out. 

“I’ll clean up. Thank you for dinner.” He says, grabbing their plates from the table and stepping over to the sink.

“And thank you, partner.”

Cobb sneaks one last spit of drink and wanders over to the couch, his bed for now, grateful for not having to clean up after himself for once. He props himself up to look over the back of the couch just to watch the mundane task of the Mandalorian washing his dishes and think of his excuses. He has another to add to the list; “It’s too soon,” he’ll say, “He’s too vulnerable, too easy to take advantage of”. But it’s just another excuse ain’t it? Vulnerable, maybe. But he doubts he could take any advantage.

Gods, for all his love of talking he sure is good at keeping his mouth shut when it just ain’t convenient to anymore.

\--

The dishes have never seemed so interesting. Din wipes grease and crumbs off the plates with much more focus than they really deserve because he can feel the eyes on his back and he can’t turn to look, not yet, not with his thoughts racing as they are. He feels vaguely like he’s been standing out in the frozen cold for hours only to be thrust into a sauna, that uncomfortable itching tingle racing over him as his body adjusts to the new normal. There’s a frantic energy in his bones, the same fire burning at his insides that sent him running into the desert this morning because if he didn’t run away he would run headlong into whatever this is. 

He’s never felt trapped inside his beskar, it’s always felt like a protective shield. Now it feels like a cage. What must it feel like to hold someone to your chest, feel them breath, have them slowly mold to match all your own dips and bumps without a sheet of metal between you?

What would his tribe think of him? Cozying up to a non-Mandalorian, being reckless with his feelings and his affections, not even explaining himself. 

Well, they aren’t here, are they?

He finishes cleaning and takes a deep breath, willing himself to think about anything other than the shape of Cobb’s ribs under his hands. He turns and finds he was being watched, but not anymore. A soft smile pulls at his lips at the sight of Cobb Vanth, fearless and fearsome leader of Mos Pelgo, asleep over the back of the couch apparently drunk as a skunk.

He carefully settles the Marshal down onto the couch with only mild resistance and a few muttered half phrases and lays his blanket on top of him. Once comfortable his features relax again as if he had never been woken, a quiet snore starting in his throat.

Din watches him sleep for a moment, another instance of Cobb possessing some strange ease that Din seems to lack. Even on the narrow couch Cobb sprawls, all gangling limbs overlapping and hanging off the edges. He wants to take his gloves off and run his bare hands through his sleek silver hair.

He balls his fists and goes back to the kitchen, leans over the sink and grips the counter as he looks out the window. There are two moons out tonight. He grabs the spotchka and heads outside and sits on the porch again, hoping the sounds of hushed conversations and the scream of night time bugs will quiet his mind. He sits there long enough that his ass falls asleep twice, he hardly takes more than a sip of the fluorescent drink. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small metal ball, the last remnant of his ship, and rolls it back and forth against the armrest of the dusty old chair.

“Mandalorian.” A familiar voice calls.

The woman from earlier strolls into the orange light of the porch lamp, her vibrant red hair still piled high on her head and her yellow eyes shine flat white as they catch the light before coming closer. Izabalo is strapped to chest with a fabric sling, sleeping peacefully from the looks of it.

“Ma'am.” He greets with a nod.

She stops at the foot of the stairs and appraises him, one hand supporting her child and the other leant on her cane. “You defeated the Krayt dragon.” She states. 

“Yes.” 

“What great beast brings you back to us?”

He chuckles, “No beasts, hopefully. Nothing quite so noble either.”

“Anything can be noble if you do it with honor.” She says, leaning to her other hip.

That feels… surprisingly pointed. He isn’t sure what to add to it so he just hums his agreement.

“She alright?” He nods to her daughter.

She looks down at her, a sad sort of smile colors her face. “She has nightmares sometimes. I've found that this helps her fall back asleep.” She looks back at him with a knowing look, “Seems you also find comfort in being outdoors when you can’t sleep.”

“True.” He agrees. He nods to her mechanical leg. “I'm no mechanic, but I could see about evening out that leg. Make it easier.”

She picks it up and flexes the foot, “You know, I've been reluctant to find anyone to take a look at it.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, I lost my leg when I was younger, still growing, and my dad made me this leg. He died not too long after. Never got a chance for him to make it longer. I haven't wanted to change it, because it's all I have left of him now.”

He rolls the ball along the armrest again, “But it's a hindrance now, isn't it?” 

She shrugs, “Better than no leg at all.”

“True.” He taps the ball to the hollow metal of the chair, it makes a sharp and ringing sound, “If you decide you'd like someone to look at it, I would do my best to preserve as much of the original as possible.”

“I'll think it over.” She looks him over, another x-ray look into him it seems. “You are different than I thought. When I saw you before, I thought you just a hunter. You have more going on in there than just the lust for credit.”

He huffs out a laugh, “Thank you. It hasn't been about credits in a long time.”

She nods and smiles and readjusts her hold on Izabalo. “Take care, Mandalorian.”

“It's Din.” He says, he doesn’t know why. 

“I know, she told me.” She says, drumming her fingers on Izabalo’s back. “You can call me Zelphina.” 

He nods, “Good night, Zelphina.”

“Good night, Din.”

Din watches her walk off until she disappears from his view and sits there a while longer. He sighs and picks up the spotchka and heads back in, the scrape of the door doesn’t cause as much as a hiccup in Cobb’s sleeping breath. He sets the drink on the counter, turns off the lights, grabs his bag and heads into the bedroom. He has a project to work on.


End file.
